Group of citizens meets every Sunday to prepare sandwiches for Bombay's poor

Group of citizens meets every Sunday to prepare sandwiches for Bombay's poor

A group of citizens meets every Sunday to prepare sandwiches for the city's poor.

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Farha Baria

December 31, 1995

ISSUE DATE: December 31, 1995

UPDATED: July 1, 2013 13:16 IST

Every Sunday when his alarm clock rings at 5 a.m., Kamlesh Shah gets out of bed with a quiet sense of purpose. Tiptoeing through the sleeping house, he heads for the kitchen and lights the stove. A hot cup of tea and a cold shower later, the 49-year-old Bombay businessman gets into his car for the 4 km ride to Asha Daan.

The Bombay branch of Mother Teresa's home for dying destitutes. En route, he stops at the grocer's for a customary purchase: 20 large packs of butter wrapped in newspaper. As a hesitant dawn stains the sky, Shah reaches his destination, a large barn that houses the elderly inmates of Asha Daan.

Inside, the place is like a military kitchen. Even as Shah plonks his parcel on the floor, two men stagger into the tubelit room lugging huge vats piled with 250 loaves of bread while a third struggles to open a 4 kg tin of jam. Nineteen others line a long trestle table, making sandwiches with the precision of assembly line robots.

Some peel the wax paper off the loaves, some arrange the bread into heaps, others slap on the butler or jam and then wedge the slices into neat squares. Fingers fly, knives flash. And within the hour, 2,350 sandwiches are ready to be distributed to five charitable organisations in the vicinity: the League of Mercy for abandoned girls, the Sheppards Home for elderly women, the J.J. Dharamsala for the Aged, the Juvenile Remand Home and of course, Asha Daan.

It is a sabbath ritual that has united this strange brotherhood for 17 years. Most of them are local businessmen, but the latest rosier of 23 also includes a doctor, a professor and an accountant. Those who cannot keep their Sunday date usually send a standby wives, children and close friends are all fringe members.

Like many of the others, Shah puts in a frenetic 12-hour workday, six days a week, and runs a host of businesses. With an annual turnover of Rs 5 crore and interests that range from computer software to chemical imports, he rarely has time to grab a quick lunch.

Prepared sandwiches for poor

Yet the Sunday sandwich-making sessions are sacrosanct. "We do this to repay our debt to society." Shah says simply. Strange as it may seem, the members of the group are loathe to divulge their names or publicise their philanthropy. "True charity doesn't have a name, it takes away the pleasure of giving." explains a member. "That is why our group has no official registration."

It all began in 1978 with only two members and a vague desire to "do something for the needy". Distributing fruits to dying destitutes at Asha Daan proved satisfying until Mother Teresa came up with a suggestion: could they provide the inmates with a nutritious breakfast at least once a week? It would make for a welcome change from the carefully budgeted daily ration of black tea.

Three years later, the sandwiches were on the breakfast menu of other institutions within a radius of 2 km. Meanwhile, membership kept growing. The cost of this anonymous goodwill is Rs 2,300 and although they are happy to pick up the tab. "contributions by well-wishers are welcome from people of all communities", explains another member.

They found that charity transcends barriers of caste and creed. Donations come from Hindus, Muslims, Parsts, Christians and Sikhs even an anonymous Jew from Israel who "dropped by" and sends the occasional cheque.

By 7 a.m., cartons of sandwiches are loaded into a fleet of cars and the morning rounds begin. As they stop at the League of Mercy, a group of little girls run out in breathless anticipation followed by a more sedate lady in a sari.

Most of the members are local businessmen, but recent additions include a doctor, a professor and an accountant.

The boxes are silently handed over, prompting a chorus of gratitude. "The children are happy." says the house matron, Naomi Davis.

"Not because they will eat jam sandwiches for breakfast but because they feel that someone cares.

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